Let us bend over and kiss our ass goodbye.
Yesterday’s inaugural hoopla left me shaking my head. And even more so after hearing people whom I once respected talk about how they were weeping with joy, filled with excitement, and practically having orgasms over Obama. Enough already!
We blew it. P.J. O’Rourke said it better than I ever could.
Do you call that a shrimp taco? A Buenos Aires Mexican restaurant made the mistake of serving that to food maven and proprietor of Casa SaltShaker Dan Perlman. Read on about his bizarre Mexican food experience.
What passes for Mexican food arrives in some strange incarnations in other parts of the world. I’ve been served tamales bathed in brown gravy in Ardmore, Oklahoma, and I’ve eaten enchiladas swathed in molten yellow cheese and floating in what had to have been Campbell’s Cream of Tomato soup. But the strangest was a plate of tacos I was served at a chichi restaurant calling itself Mexican in Ortaköy, an Istanbul suburb. The tortillas resembled crepes, and they were filled with canned corn and fresh, raw peas.
Rio de Janeiro
Glasgow, Scotland
Barcelona
Helsinki
Luxembourg
Peru
Singapore
Christchurch, New Zealand
Denver
So sayeth Forbes magazine. I always knew there was good reason for loving and living in Michoacán.
Go ahead. Build that fence. We Mexicans will own it in one more year anyway.
Red Shoes are Better than Bacon 